


Portent Of -

by Baphrosia (spuffy_luvr)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffy_luvr/pseuds/Baphrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the fag-ends livejournal prompt: "The Raven".  Spike knows Buffy's dead and gone, but somebody (or something) isn't about to let him to forget.</p>
<p>RUNNER-UP for BEST ANGST:  Round 31 of the SunnyD Awards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portent Of -

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how this won at SunnyD. I wrote it in a quick minute in an attempt to win the annual fag-ends Halloween challenge (speed mattered!). But apparently somebody enjoyed it enough to nominate it, and enough other people enjoyed it enough to vote for it, and here we are. So, thanks to anybody who voted! It's kinda neat to win when you really didn't expect it.

  
  
When the great, ruddy bird with jet-black feathers and Dru’s face fluttered into his crypt, Spike knew he was in trouble.  
  
“Raven, eh?  I know how this goes,” he slurred.  “Nevermore, nevermore, she’s gone and dead, I’ll see her nevermore.  Got it.  You can move along now.”  
  
The raven did not oblige.  It ruffled its feathers and settled in, tipping its head from one side to the other to fix Spike with a beady stare.  
  
“Fucking hell.  Wonderful.  As if I haven’t enough troubles.”  He tipped his bottle at the bird-thing in a mock-salute.  “It’s your fault, you know.  If you wouldn’t have gone and left me, I wouldn’t have come back to Sunnyhell.  Wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have…  Ah, bugger it.  I was already lost, and you knew it, you bitch.  You could've spared me.  Could've kept me from... from... Thought it hurt when you left.  As if _that_ was pain.”  
  
Spike drained the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp.  He set the bottle on the ground, or tried to, but it rolled away, towards the sarcophagus the bird had chosen as its perch.  The bird didn’t so much as flinch.  
  
“Know what the kicker is?  Wouldn’t change a thing,” he muttered.  “’Cept that last day, ‘course.  But all the rest of it?  Wouldn’t give up… a… single…”  
  
A slight weight on his shoulder and a feather-light caress on his cheek pulled him partway from his drunken slumber.  
  
The nip on his cheek, sharp enough to draw blood, and flesh, finished the job.

 


End file.
